


a swelling fermata as the chord dies

by flowersforgraves



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Violence, Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: Il Duce purposely drives a wedge between the twins.





	a swelling fermata as the chord dies

**Author's Note:**

> reasons Il Duce sucks: the fic. or, "Noah MacManus should have been the villain of the second Boondock Saints movie, you can't change my mind."

There’s something disturbing about Il Duce, Murphy thinks, something that makes his skin crawl and flinch away from the man’s touch. He doesn’t want Il Duce near him, and more importantly, near Connor. He doesn’t trust the man, and even though -- even _if_ \-- he really is their biological father, he has never been anything remotely like a father to them.

But Connor loves him. Il Duce is freer with his praise than their mam ever was, and Murphy can see his twin practically glowing every time he gets a gruff “well done” or a clap on his shoulder. Connor loves him, and calls him Da, and pouts when Murphy expresses any of his discomfort.

The more Connor sings Il Duce’s praises, the more Murphy distrusts him. He doesn’t like the man, doesn’t trust him, doesn’t give a shit about his opinions, and refuses to accept any relation to the man. Connor doesn’t like it; they’ve had more real fights in the past six weeks than they have in the past six years. Connor says Murphy needs to respect his father. Murphy says it’s not his responsibility to make room in his life for a man who has never been there for them. Connor says Murphy is being paranoid and selfish. Murphy says Connor is being a blind fool.

The thing is, however, that Il Duce knows. He knows they’re arguing, knows they’re divided, and he’s fucking _using_ that. He’s using Connor’s adoration, indulging him and treating him well and giving him everything Murphy can’t. At the same time, he’s sneering at Murphy behind Connor’s back, taunting him that Connor (who is Murphy’s, who has always been Murphy’s) is his now. 

He’s hit Murphy a few times. Nowhere that Connor can see, not on his face or arms, but getting beaten with a belt or punched in the stomach or backhanded hard enough to leave a bruise is fair game.

The first time it happens Murphy tells Connor immediately. Connor gets him painkillers, hugs him tight, and promises to ask Il Duce about it tomorrow. That goes about as well as Murphy’d expected, and the second time it happens, Connor doesn’t bother with a hug or painkillers. By the third time, he yells at Murphy to stop lying. Murphy hasn’t bothered to tell Connor since.

Murphy knows he’s not exactly well-adjusted. He knows that he should be able to talk this through with Connor, that he has an obligation to try and fix things. But that doesn’t stop him from self-destructing, going out and getting blind drunk, hooking up with strangers in bars, sometimes not even returning to the apartment they now share with Il Duce. Some part of him is aware that he’s doing it to somehow punish Connor for not paying attention to him, that he’s trying to win Connor back by needing him more than Il Duce does, but the rest of him doesn’t care.

Sometimes he doesn’t come back to the apartment. Tonight he sleeps off his alcohol daze in an alleyway that reminds him painfully of their old neighborhood instead. At least, it does in the light of day. He doesn’t remember walking over here, doesn’t remember much beyond getting into a fight and stumbling outside to nurse his black eye and split lip. Of course, he’d already been three sheets to the wind at that point, and the bottle he’d taken with him had been enough to fuck over his memory of anything else.

Il Duce is out when Murphy and Connor have a screaming fight. “It feels wrong,” Murphy insists. “There’s something fucked up about what we’re doing now.”

“We were called,” Connor says. “We were called and we’re doing what we were meant to do. Are you getting cold feet?”

“What -- no, that’s not what this is about,” Murphy says, hurt. “Don’t you think it’s wrong to not know the details of what our targets have done? Don’t you think it’s part of our duty to understand why these men deserve what we do?”

“You’re a fucking coward, is what I think,” Connor snarls. “If you’re not committed to this, if you’re ignoring what God sent us to do, then you shouldn’t be in this house.”

It’s sometime between midnight and dawn when he stumbles back into the apartment to find Connor waiting up for him. 

“Where have you been?” Connor demands as soon as Murphy has shut the door.

“None of your business,” Murphy says. He’s having difficulty making his fingers work properly to undo his boots, so he concentrates on that rather than the glare Connor is sending his way.

“Where the fuck were you? We were looking for you,” and the reproach in Connor’s tone is suddenly too much.

Murphy laughs, bitter. “Aren’t you enjoying getting to spend quality time with your da?” he snipes. “Isn’t he keeping you busy enough?”

Connor flinches. “I -- Murph, you were gone, it was late and you were gone and I didn’t know where you were, I was afraid you’d gotten hurt or something, I waited for you to come back.”

“Thanks,” Murphy says insincerely, and pulls the sheet over his head so Connor won’t keep talking. When he wakes up with an awful hangover, Connor is gone.

They don’t sleep together anymore. It’s partially out of necessity -- Il Duce wouldn’t take kindly to his sons in the same bed, even if they weren’t fucking -- and partially due to the growing distance between them. A month ago Murphy missed it, sharing space with Connor even without sex, but that was a month ago.

A month is a long time if you’ve spent your whole twenty three years joined at the hip with someone. A month is a long time if you no longer trust the only person you’ve ever really loved.

Murphy finds himself outside more and more often these days. In the morning, it’s raining, humidity crushing his ribs while he chain-smokes his way through a trashy action hero paperback. He leans against the window, glass cool against his forehead, and tries not to think about the fact that Connor’s in the kitchen alone with Il Duce.

In the afternoon, the sun beats through the west-facing windows in oppressive humidity. Murphy pauses outside the kitchen door, listening to his twin talk to Il Duce. 

"If he doesn't shape up, I might have to start hitting him for true," Il Duce says, and laughs. 

Murphy bites his lip until he tastes blood. He still has bruises from the last beating, but he doesn't tell Connor anymore. He knows Connor won't believe him, and he's had quite enough of being belittled, demeaned, and shouted at.

Connor still has the decency to say, "Murph isn't a bad person, Da. He might be a needy jealous little bitch, but he's not a bad person."

Il Duce snorts. "He's constantly disrespectful."

"I know," Connor says."He's just --"

Murphy pushes the door open. He can't stand to hear whatever Connor plans to say next. They both stop abruptly, turning to stare at him. "Am I interrupting?"

"No!" Connor says, too quickly. "We were just --"

"Discussing our next job," Il Duce says smoothly. 

Murphy nods. The lie sets his teeth on edge, but he swallows it, sucking the blood from his bitten lip. "Who is it this time?" he asks, trying not to show anything on his face.

"There's a corrupt cop," Connor says, visibly relieved to get away from the lying. "He's got a track record of excessive violence." He spits out the last two words, the euphemism twisting his face.

Murphy nods, and bends over the information Il Duce lays out on the table.

It’s supposed to be an easy job. It’s supposed to be easy and Murphy’s supposed to do what he’s told and be quiet otherwise. 

But Murphy’s never been good at doing what he’s told. He scopes out the building before they go in, alone in the late afternoon, and there’s no way this plan is going to work. He says as much to Il Duce later, after dinner while Connor’s in the kitchen scrubbing the dishes clean. 

The sound of running water and the clatter of plates muffles the sounds of Il Duce’s belt cracking against Murphy’s back and ass, apparently, because Connor doesn’t seem to know anything happened when he’s done. Murphy sits gingerly, because sudden motion will definitely reopen the shallow cuts on his back, and doesn’t speak while his twin and Il Duce put on the evening news.

Il Duce is the one making decisions about the jobs they take. He doesn’t consult Connor very often, and Murphy even less. They get two days’ notice to scope out the target, to do research and plan, and Murphy resents it.

He resents it even more when the _rightness_ of it starts to fade. They’re God’s hand, sent by Him to help rid the world of evil. But Il Duce never received that calling the way he and Connor had; Murphy can tell by the perfunctory, showy way he prays that he is doing it mostly for their benefit. He’s starting to wonder if Il Duce even believes. 

When it feels _wrong_ as opposed to merely _not right_ is when Murphy can’t keep quiet anymore. But everything is closer to the surface; he doesn’t have Connor to ground him and balance him anymore, because Connor doesn’t sleep curled against his side anymore, doesn’t move together with him like they’re one person anymore, isn’t the reassuring presence beside him anymore. He has to watch himself, guarded, pulling back from Connor both physically and emotionally.

Murphy doesn’t know if Connor notices, and if he does, he doesn’t care enough to reach out.

Murphy feels isolated, cast adrift in a way he’s never been before. He understands there’s a need for whatever Connor is getting from Il Duce, but that it comes at the price of Connor trusting Il Duce so quickly and thoroughly is what he can’t accept. Everything feels wrong. He feels the way he does after purposely skipping Mass, chest tight with guilt and a closed-off emotional connection to his faith. Something needs to change. This isn’t sustainable for him anymore.

“I’m going out for the night, boys,” Il Duce announces suddenly. “Behave, now.” He’s fucking smiling, and Murphy hates it, because Connor’s smiling back. “Remember we have a job tomorrow.”

Connor is kissing him as soon as the door shuts behind Il Duce’s retreating back. Murphy doesn’t resist; it’s easier to just let Connor do what he wants, especially the night before a job. Despite himself, he arches up into Connor’s hands, because he misses sleeping next to Connor and touching all the time, even if he knows there are very good reasons they’re no longer so hands-on with each other.

But Murphy's not desperate enough to beg for, or consent to, actual penetrative sex. Murphy’s still in boxers, but he knows Connor wants to fuck him. Connor’s naked, and hard, and he’s been touching Murphy sexually for over an hour through various states of undress. But it’s still a surprise when Connor’s lubricant-slick fingers wrap around his dick, one hand slid all at once down the front of Murphy’s underpants. 

Murphy jerks away. “Connor!”

Connor’s grinning. “What?” he asks, like they’re playing.

“I don’t -- no. I don’t want to do this right now. He fuckin’ beat me again and --”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Connor’s brows draw together and his grip on Murphy tightens to the point of pain. “Murph, we’ve talked about this. Don’t lie.”

“It’s not a fucking lie,” Murphy says, elbowing Connor hard in the ribs. “My shirt’s off, you can see what he did to my fucking back --”

“He didn’t do fuck-all!” Connor’s jaw is clenched tight, anger pouring off of him. “You’re a fucking liar, Murphy, it’s disgusting is what it is. You’d lie to try and manipulate me into turning against our fucking _da_? That’s a fucking mortal sin twice over.”

“I’m not fucking lying!” Murphy raises his voice in an effort to maintain a conversation rather than a fight, but it’s still wrong because nothing he does is right anymore.

“Shut the fuck up,” Connor snarls. He spins Murphy around, pushing him face down into the bed, and settles on his legs so he can’t move. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear you open your lying mouth again. I’m going to fuck you now, Murphy, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Okay?”

Murphy bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood. “Connor, no,” he says, but it doesn’t fucking matter anyway, because Connor already has pushed his boxers down and there’s a stretch and burn around his hole and where the cuts from the beating are. 

Connor keeps a hand in Murphy’s hair the whole time, pressing his face into the mattress while he fucks Murphy too hard too fast with too little prep. “Don’t you ever fucking try to manipulate me by lying about da again, understand?” he asks between harsh breaths after his come mixes with Murphy’s blood on the sheets. 

Murphy doesn’t reply. It’s easier to just stay still and pretend the last hour was a dream, mixed in with the other nightmares he has, but the blood on the sheets is all too real.

In the morning Connor goes out to the store, having woken up later than Murphy and needing more coffee. They don’t speak, even when Connor comes back with groceries and Murphy cooks a shitty lunch, and they sit around the shittier table and hold hands to say grace. Murphy doesn’t want to hold Connor’s hand, possibly for the first time ever.

In the evening Murphy goes out, finds a bar he doesn't know in a neighborhood he's never been to, and lets a guy flirt his way into Murphy's pants. He doesn't like hookups, never has. Sleeping around has been a way for Murphy to punish himself in the past, and this isn't really any different. The guy is rougher than he likes (like Connor last night), fucks him without fingering him open first (like Connor last night), kicks Murphy out into the street for the night when he's done using Murphy's hole. 

It's fine. Murphy deserves it anyway. He climbs a tree in one of the city parks, and takes short catnaps until the sun comes up.

They go on another job, too soon after the last. He runs out of bullets too fast, but he doesn't get yelled at until they're back in the apartment. 

"Why the fuck didn't you say something?" Connor snarls. "You're a fucking liability, Murphy. You don't pull your weight and you whine and you don't have any fucking respect for our father. You'd better learn how to act."

Murphy flinches, but he clenches his jaw resolutely and pushes his hair away from his face. "Or what? Or you'll hit me like Il Duce did? Or, sorry, hit me like he didn't? You'll hold me down like you did last time you fucked me even though I said no?"

Connor's face is red with anger. "You liked it," he says. "You didn't mean it when you said no."

"Do I also like when you call me a needy jealous bitch?" Murphy sneers. "Since you know what I like much better than I do, apparently."

Connor's breath hitches. Rage, or surprise, or anything else -- it doesn't particularly matter. "How fucking dare you? You know I didn't mean it."

"No?" Murphy asks, hysteria edging his voice. "So you lied? To your father? Bore false witness?"

Connor reaches out for him, but Murphy pulls away reflexively, the way he does from Il Duce.

Connor grabs his arm anyway, and Murphy goes as still as possible. He's still shaking violently, though Connor can feel him trying to stop. He reaches up to tip Murphy's face toward him, and Murphy flinches again, so fast Connor can't even try to convince himself this is Murphy manipulating him.

"Please," Murphy whispers, and he's _scared_, refusing to meet Connor's eyes and flinching away, making himself small in a way Connor has only seen a few times in their adult life. "Please don't hit me again."

Connor lets go, backs up, because the awful creeping guilt in his throat is moving down into his chest and settling there like it won't go away. "I wouldn't really hurt you," he says, and it sounds hollow to his own ears.

Murphy drops to the ground, knees pulled tight to his chest, still visibly shaking, and Connor runs away like the coward he is, because he doesn't know how to make Murphy feel safe anymore. When he comes back, Murphy is gone.

The sun has almost set, and Murph still isn’t back. Connor is sitting on the bed, bouncing a little, and waiting. It’s been longer than he’d expected, longer than Murph had ever taken before. He pours himself a drink and drains it as fast as he can, and then another.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he’s aware of is that it’s night, and someone has just entered the apartment. Connor stands as quickly as he can without falling, and his heart sinks when it’s not Murphy, but Da.

“He’s not back?” Da asks, gravelly.

“Not yet,” Connor says. “But he will be,” he adds, secure in his certainty. 

It’s another drink or two later that he falls asleep again, this time sleeping straight through to morning. Murphy isn’t there, and this isn’t the first time Connor’s woken to an empty cot beside him, but something about this feels different.

"I'm worried about Murphy," Connor says over coffee, anxious like he hasn't been around Da since that first week.

Da snorts. "Ungrateful boy," he mutters. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that, lad. I don't think he's cut out for this. You and I, we are _committed_. But he's lost faith. He's holding us back. It's time for you to make a choice, son," Da says. "Me, or him? Our Calling, or weakness?"

Connor can't breathe. He doesn't know how long he sits there, because even if he hasn't spoken to Murph properly in -- a week? ten days? it's still his brother, his twin. "I. I think I need some time," he croaks out, finally, aware of Da's iron gaze fixing him uncomfortably in place.

"Don't be too long about it," Da tells him, and gets up to leave.

The humidity in the air is so thick Connor could cut it with a knife. But still, even now, he knows where Murphy will probably be.

So Connor seeks him out, finds the bar where Murphy is on his third beer at ten in the morning. "Da wants me to leave. Wants me to choose him or you," he says without preamble. 

Murphy doesn't look up from staring into the mug. "So? When are you leaving?" he asks.

Connor takes a deep breath. He'd prepared himself for a few different reactions, but calm acceptance, the assumption that of _course_ Connor would leave, wasn't one of them. "I wanted to give you a chance to --"

"To fucking what?" Murphy's fingers tighten around the mug, his nose wrinkling in the most genuine expression Connor has seen on his face in some time. "To beg you to stay? I won't do that. It's better if you just go with him. We'll both be better off."

"Murphy," Connor starts.

"You're assuming I even want you around," Murphy continues. "Why would I want you to stay? You keep hurting me. It'll be better this way," he repeats. He says _hurt_ like a word for long term harm, lasting emotional pain, terrifyingly close to abuse, and Connor clenches his jaw defensively. 

"Better how? Murph, I'm doing you a fucking favor here. I could just leave. But you're my brother, and even after this --" Connor waves a hand in the general direction of the apartment, taking in the past six months "-- you're still important to me."

Murphy actually laughs at that, hard and bitter. "How arrogant do you have to be, Connor? Better for you because you'll have what you want without me fucking it up. Because you and your da can play your murder games easier. Because nobody is having a good time with all three of us in this apartment. Better for me because I won't have to be scared to say no. Because I won't have to be afraid my brother is going to rape me again. Because I won't have to make myself quiet and small just to exist. Because I won't get hit anymore. You chose him over me five months ago, Connor."

He almost throws up. There's really nothing he can say to that. The sick twist of realization in his stomach expands until Connor thinks he can't possibly contain it all, except he does, and he hears himself say, "Murphy," sounding so lost and alone he doesn't know what to do.

Murphy is rocking back and forth, almost invisibly, shoulders tucked in as tight as possible, shielding his face. Connor almost throws up again when he realizes Murphy is waiting to be hit. He's signing _I'm sorry_ over and over, making the circle on his chest, and the nausea swells back up when Connor realizes it's been an increasingly common fixture in any interaction with Murphy and that he hadn't noticed.

He copies the motion as soon as he realizes. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, and then, again, "I'm so sorry, Murph." It's not good enough, it will never be good enough, but maybe Murphy will stop being so scared of him.

It earns him a confused, hurt look, the first eye contact Murphy's made, and Connor runs away again rather than face his twin.

Murphy drains his beer, staring after Connor's retreating back, and aches for a cigarette. He figures it's an act, whatever contrition Connor's showing, so Murphy will come back and they'll kill him too. He's got to get out of Boston before they find him again. Chicago, maybe, get lost in the crowd. Or Arizona, isolate himself so thoroughly he'll die alone and unmourned. Maybe he'll leave the country, pay his way across the Atlantic with sex or manual labor on an anonymous cargo vessel. But he wants to leave one last fuck-you to Il Duce -- and even now, it's hard to hate Connor.

So Murphy has a plan. It’s a shit plan, but it’s a plan, and he’s going to take this last hit before he leaves the city. It’s a gang he and Connor have had their eyes on for months, and Connor had convinced Il Duce to put this hit on the docket for next week. Murphy isn’t going to wait for that, though, because he’s alone and if he doesn’t have any sort of backup it’s better to have the element of surprise on his side.

So he hides out in a shitty bar in the German neighborhood where he and Connor had been once before, and he prepares for a solo job.

When morning breaks Murphy puts on his mask, loads his guns, triple-checks everything, and slips into the warehouse. He’s good, he's really fucking good because he has to be, but one man isn’t a match for six guys, and they do knock him out.

He wakes up tied to a chair. His nose hurts like it’s newly broken, and his blurry vision registers the leader of the gang. “Didn’t do it, huh?” he slurs.

The man smiles, but there’s no humor. “No,” he says. “And we’ve seen what happens to people who try to capture one of the Saints, so we’ve made sure your brother doesn’t know where you are.”

Murphy laughs until he starts coughing, spitting blood and phlegm on the concrete floor. “That’s fine,” he says. “Suits us fine.”

He’s not sure how long he stays there, fading in and out of consciousness from dehydration, hunger, and pain. Having a hostage means, for this gang, a free punching bag, so Murphy finds himself curled up as much as he can, trying unsuccessfully to shield himself from the kicks, punches, and knife cuts various gang members bestow on his torso. There’s a vague notion that somehow Connor will know, and come rescue him, but Murphy pushes that as far down as he can. Connor isn’t coming. Connor is Il Duce's, not his. He’s irreparably ruined his relationship with Connor, and even if Connor knew he would leave Murphy to rot here. 

He wonders if maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had been paranoid, selfish, overbearing. Maybe he had judged Il Duce too harshly. Maybe he had been jealous that Connor loved someone other than him. Maybe he has been Connor’s center for so long he doesn’t know how to exist without his twin.

Murphy decides this is probably true, and that God is punishing him for daring to go against His will. He deserves it, deserves this and worse for failing the Lord. Once he accepts that, it’s easier. Knowing he deserves this doesn’t make it hurt less, but it does allow him to let go of any thought of escaping. Someone drags a knife down his side, putting another tear in his filthy shirt, and he sobs as he feels the second cut hit bone.

The worse comes later, when Murphy is injected with some cocktail that makes him simultaneously wide awake and unable to move. The worse comes later, when Murphy is manhandled over a table and pinned down. The worse comes later, when he loses count of how many men have raped him and how many more have watched.

He is quiet and lets them hurt him, because he is a sinner and a traitor and God is right to punish him.

They tie him back to the chair when they're done. It hurts, and Murphy finally allows himself to pray for death.

There’s gunfire in the hallway outside the room. Murphy is pretty sure he’s hallucinating, because he can hear Connor’s voice, and when the door opens and someone who looks achingly like his twin stands there dumbfounded, he tries to gather his wits to hold a conversation. It can't be Connor. Murphy doesn't deserve Connor coming to save him. But if this is an angel, Murphy knows his request will be not for his own salvation, but for Connor's. If he wasn't so difficult, so inadequate, so unable to see, Connor would never have had to hurt him. He knows it's his fault.

-

Connor bursts through the door, gun at the ready, but there’s only one person in the room. It’s a man about Connor’s age, tied to the chair and dressed in bloody, filthy rags. His head is down, and at first Connor thinks he’s dead, but then the man lifts his head and it’s _Murphy._

Connor pulls his mask up off his face. His hands are shaking as he stares, and he lowers his gun arm. “Murph,” he says, voice raspy. He drops the gun and tears the gag from his brother’s mouth. “Murph!”

“You’re not real,” Murph says, with more conviction than Connor has heard from him in a long time. “Or you might be real, but you’re not Connor.”

“Murph, it’s me,” Connor says, and there’s nothing else he can say but “It’s _me_,” again.

“No, it’s not,” Murphy repeats. “Connor isn’t here. He’s not coming. I know I’m paying for leaving, but I -- I don’t know what I did to make this happen. I asked God to forgive me, and He sent this. You.”

It feels like the bottom has dropped out of Connor’s world. “Murph,” he whispers. 

Murphy seems to come to a decision. “Shoot me,” he says.

“What?” Connor’s taken aback, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything else before he can hear gunshots behind him and he shoots two more thugs before he can turn back to Murphy.

“Come on, son, let’s go!” Da -- Noah -- Il Duce -- _Da_ shouts from outside. 

Connor just stares. Murphy stares back, calm and accepting in a way that makes Connor sick. It’s finally the realization that Murph is _surprised_ he’s hesitated this long that makes his decision for him. Before he’s even aware that he’s decided what to do, he’s in motion, dropping to his knees to saw through the ropes and zipties and tape binding Murph to the chair.

“What are you doing?” Murph asks, and he sounds so honestly confused that it breaks Connor’s heart. “He’s waiting for you.”

“I’m stopping this,” Connor says, standing up. “I’m not letting them hurt you anymore.” He pulls Murph forward, out of the chair, and he’s surprised at how easy it is.

Murph leans on him, and Connor feels _right_ in a way he didn’t even realize was missing. “You’re -- you’re not happy about this,” he says. “Why, Murph? Why are you upset? It’s another chance for all of us to --”

"I don't deserve it," Murphy says, dull and blank. "I -- it's my fault. I'm sorry I made you hurt me."

“We'll try again," and Connor realizes even as he’s saying it that there won’t be another chance. He’s made a choice, Murph over Da, and there’s no going back. 

“Just shoot me,” Murphy pleads. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

“You’re my fucking _brother_, Murph,” Connor says. 

“And he’s your fucking da!” Murphy coughs, spits blood on the floor.

Connor doesn’t say anything to that, just takes more of Murphy’s weight as they make a slow, painful way across the room. “He told me you abandoned God’s mission. He said you’d made your choice and there was nothing else we could do for ye.” As he says it out loud, the awful reality, the blatant untruth of it, sinks deep into his bones. Now, with Murph leaning on him and the _rightness_ that has settled back into his soul, he wonders how he could ever have believed that.

-

Murphy wonders if he’s hallucinating after all, but no hallucination looks like Connor, sounds like Connor, smells like Connor, is warm and solid and makes him feel safe like Connor. But when they turn the corner, they come face to face with Il Duce. Murphy takes some guilty, impure pleasure from seeing the fury cross the man’s face before he hides it. 

“Connor, lad, what are ye doing?” Il Duce asks, ignoring Murphy completely to address Connor.

And Connor, bless him, says, “He’s my brother.” It’s the tone he uses when someone is being an idiot and missing something obvious, and Murphy has never loved that sound more. He loves Connor, and hates himself, because he is the only one who needs to go to hell.

Il Duce frowns. “Come on, son, we need to leave. Call an ambulance if you must, but we need to make ourselves disappear.”

“He’s my _brother,_” Connor says, voice rising. “_He’s_ your son too. Just as much as I am. If you’re not taking him, then I’m not going either.”

Murphy blinks away the dark spots in his vision that mean he’s going to pass out again soon. When he opens his eyes again, Il Duce is getting into the car, starting the engine, and driving away, leaving his sons standing there in the cold.

There’s a warehouse full of dead gangsters behind them, and Connor’s gun hangs forgotten at his side, and Murphy still isn’t quite sure this is real, but then Connor breathes, “I’m so sorry.”

Murphy can’t stifle another quiet noise of pain, and says, “You should have gone with him." He doesn't say _you should have shot me_. He doesn't say _don't send yourself to hell for me._ He should say those things, but because he is a bad person he doesn't, and lets himself lean on Connor further.

-

Several hours and over a hundred careful stitches later, Murphy is asleep on the bed in the safe house, and Dolly is handing Connor emergency contact information. “You boys be safe,” Dolly says, gesturing inadequately around at their surroundings. “Take care of him,” he adds, nodding at Murphy’s unconscious form.

“I will,” Connor promises. “I -- we’ll be alright.” He’s not sure that’s true, but it’s going to have to do. He shuts the door, and curls up in the little space next to Murphy on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m so sorry, Murph.”

It’s going to take a long time for things to get back to some semblance of normal, Connor knows, but right now he can pretend, and that’s more than he deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> somehow I've managed to write a fandom I love and a ship I love and a lot of tropes I love into a fic that made me cry writing it


End file.
